


The Bogeyman

by doodnoice



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood and Gore, Check the chapter summaries/intro notes for additional warnings, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Reader, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodnoice/pseuds/doodnoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're the Batter's mistress--a being created for the sole purpose of keeping him compliant and sane while the Queen tries to stave off the inevitable, but you know the fate of you and your people. Your king will destroy the world all over again and there is nothing you can do to change that.<br/>-<br/>The Batter/Reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. la maîtresse de la mort

**Author's Note:**

> edited 06/11/17 - heavy editing, prepping for future renewal

From where you began, there was nothing. As with most creatures, your entry into the world of the living stemmed from the oblivion--the non-existent plane which few remember, and even fewer still understand, yet everything and everyone stems from it, and will always stem from it until the end of days. You know this, because _she_ knows this, and she is the only reason you will exist.

 _"Open your eyes..."_ a sultry voice coaxes, her voice a sing-song melody to your once deaf ears. _"You are alive, my dear. Awaken."_

The feeling of returning from the void is not one you will remember fondly, but you know you will always remember. There is a shock, like cold ice running down your back, and a shrill ringing in your ears that resonates with every soft breath _she_ takes from her place above you. All at once--too much at once--you feel yourself alight; your body wracked with shivers as nerve endings and muscle and skin connect with your brain in ways that make you feel alive.

_I am alive_ , and that thought alone will haunt you until the end of your days, because _she_ has seen it, and she is never wrong. Doing as you're told is not a difficult task. You are meant for taking orders, after all, and her voice, whoever she is, feels as wonderful as a crisp breeze you can't quite recall having ever experienced. You open your eyes, and after the blinding white fades to shadows and colors and shapes you recognize, you see _her_ and words fail you.

She is beautiful, ethereal and supernatural on this plane of existence. She looks like the void personified: a paradox of dark and light and grays that don't exist, but do anyway, because she is too blindingly perfect to not be realized in physical shape and form. Her hair is long, white and flowing and almost silvery in the reflections of the dim light of the bedroom you're in. The height of her cheek bones and slenderness of her neck depict the allure of a wise queen, not an angle with which she can turn where her looks will fail her in ways that make her appear comely. Her stance is tall, even as she looms over you, and you note, with a strange sense of satisfaction, that not a hair on her head or that cascades down her shoulders and back, is out of place. 

With a ghost's touch, the lithe, elegant knuckles of her fingers run softly along your cheek. The gentleness of her touch, the smooth delicate feel of her grayed skin against your own a marvel in itself. When she smiles down at you, perfect plump lips opening just a touch to show just the beginnings of her sharp white teeth, you have never felt safer. "So beautiful..." she murmurs, her thumb replacing her knuckles in their gentle swipes along your warm flesh, "You'll do what I cannot with ease."

There is a sadness in her eyes that shoots grief in the deepest parts of you. Your chest constricts, throat closing around the lump that has formed there--you can even feel the tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. The sensation of emotion is new to you, as is your body's responses, because you're not even sure why you feel as hurt as you do, but you want it to stop, so you sit up and catch her hand in yours as it falls from your cheek.

"My Queen," you whisper, voice low and smooth, its sound foreign to your ears, but much plainer in tone than that of your queen's. "Are you alright?"

She smiles at you, sliding her hand from yours so that it can smooth down the flesh of your thigh and rest reassuringly on your bare knee, "I will be." she says, her fingers gently running up and massaging your skin, the feeling innocent and kind, careful even as the tips of her sharp nails threaten to puncture the sensitive flesh where her fingers press. Your queen shifts, sitting beside you on the fluff of the bed, the hand on your thigh now dancing up your naked hip, the side of your breast, the curve of your neck, before finally her hand cups your cheek with an eerie sort of calmness. "You will make it better, my sweet."

You stare at her, transfixed on the dark gray and white of her skin, the colors melding together in some places and splotching in others, and she is so unbelievably beautiful. You want to do everything you can for her, pride and duty causing you to jut your chest out, posture becoming confident as you look her over with hope, "I will do whatever it is you ask of me, my Queen."

Her smile makes you want to melt, a heavy blush rising to your cheeks as she smooths your hair behind your ear, "Come with me." she says, standing from the bed to walk towards the only door in the room and beckon you forward, "My love, you must rise." At her urging, you do so, although clumsily--your knees knocking, hands gripping the bed spread as you try to keep yourself upright, but you eventually regain your balance and approach your ever patient, ever kind queen. Her smiles does not waver as she opens the door and takes your hand.

Stepping outside, you can feel the cool marble beneath the soles of your feet. The air bringing to surface goosepimples, your nipples pert against the sudden chill. Trusting in your queen, you allow her to lead you through a tall, white hallway as you take in the sights. Everything is bright and clean, smooth and spotless. The decor regal, just how your queen deserves, but simplistic in their design. Whites, blacks, silvers, grays--not an inch of the place is colored anything other than these few colors. If it were not for your queen's worldly knowledge, you would have thought these few colors were the only colors in existence.

Somewhere in front of you, over your queen's shoulder, you see little men in knight's armor, standing at attention in front of several tall doors on either side of the hallway. They look from your queen to you, a sort of pinkened flush on their cheeks as they look you over while you pass by. Their eyes follow your every movement, and only just barely stray when you meet their curious gazes with your own.

As if sensing your interest, your queen squeezes your hand and throws an amused smile back towards you, "Pay them no mind," despite her expression, your queen does not sound pleased. "They find your appearance pleasing, but you are not theirs to touch. That honor belongs to the king and the king only."

You do not make a sound, fearing you may displease her without even trying as you had just a moment ago. Silence reigns for a few more moments, before you and your queen round a corner to face the branched off end of the hallway, a large, black ornate door reaching almost from ceiling to floor. You try to ignore the unsettling tightness in your gut as your queen stops you right in front of the entry way and spins you so that she can look at you fully with her hands holding your shoulders.

There is no pretense on her face, just something cold and unfeeling. When she speaks, you focus in on her inhumanly sharp teeth, and all at once, you feel the hairs at the back of your neck stand on ends, "Your king lies just behind these doors, and it is your duty to serve him." you want to pull away, the strange haze of your connection with her, your queen, falling like the curtains at the end of a play--thick and heavy, final and kicking up dust like memories about a place you once knew.

Your queen--no, _she_... whoever she is, shakes you when she feels you are no longer listening. You try to pull away, hands clammy as you push them out and forward, attempting to gain some distance between yourself and _her_ , but she does not budge. Instead, one of her hands comes up and grips your chin stopping your wriggling, demanding you listen, "Your loyalties are with the king. You exist only to please him, your desires and wants are irrelevant. You will not disobey his orders, you will not cause him undue harm. You exist as entertainment, and when he is no longer interested in you, you will meet your end, so it is in your best interest to keep the beast sated."

You struggle, something inside of you trying to break free from the darkness, encouraging you to speak up for yourself despite the fear that quickens your heart beat, "Why are you doing this? Who are you?"

"I am your queen, behind these doors is your king. I am delivering you, _his_ servant, and that is all you need to understand, my sweet." the pet-name sounds more mocking, almost hateful, a complete turn from how she had treated you before. You want to run.

In your mind's eye, you see a horrible monster made of nothing but the void. As a creature of the light, he frightens you. You see an elongated mouth crowded with rows of razor sharp teeth, you see hideously clawed hands, cruel, rough. With one bite, one swipe, your entrails, sinew, and blood would be everywhere--the carpets, the walls, no place would be left untouched by the gore. He would make you watch yourself as you die--as he plays with your insides, rips your throat open, because it pleases him to know he can inflict such horrors on you, and you will always return, because he is your puppeteer.

"No," you say, struggling once more against her, "No, I won't go in there! LET ME GO!"

She only laughs, thumb caressing the side of your face, but there is nothing comforting about her movements--so unnatural, rehearsed that it makes you want to scream even as she hushes you, "Do not be frightened, my love. You are a child of mine, and of my strength you will succeed where others like you have fallen." You don't know when you started, but you're crying, now--frustrated, overwhelmed. Your head hurts badly, like a mallet was taken to it and mashed away at your brains.

The king, he is not your king. She is not your queen. You do not belong here, you _do not_ -

She swings the door open, silencing the beginnings of your protest as she throws you in and locks the door behind you. You turn just quick enough to see the final sliver of light fade, leaving you in sitting in the pitch darkness where the beast stays. You want to tell yourself you can handle this, that whoever _he_ is, whatever he is, you will be able to defend against, and save yourself from this new hell you've been thrust into. You want to tell yourself these things and more, but the feeling of hot breath at the back of your neck clenches your heart in fear. Cold. You feel cold. And as he grabs you and pulls you up to face him--the beast--you look into his eyes and see death.

You scream.


	2. la bête

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: nsfw  
> note, previous chapter heavily edited  
> edit 07/09: taking break, will be back (to update) earliest late july/early august <3

You thrash as best you can, but he has your arms pinned to your sides and your feet dangling from the ground. Tears run down your cheeks, head shaking, and you keep screaming even when he growls and presses you up against something that digs rounded, embossed metal and smooth wood into your back. The parts where the thing sticks out bruises you, a deep, unpleasant ache blooming from the pain there, but it does nothing but reinforce your need to fight and scream.

At some point, your voice becomes deaf to your own ears, and your struggling ceases as your muscles grow tired. Having been held in place screeching and thrashing for so long, you're not entirely sure when you start realizing your efforts are fruitless, but your voice gives out not long after your limbs grow weak, and you're left dangling in his grasp feeling helpless. Your throat seizes, raw and dry, and you can taste metal on your tongue as you swallow to alleviate your parched throat.

The beast holds you up, his breath fanning across your face, and you can just barely make out his features in the minimal light radiating through the thick curtains at the far wall to the left of you. It- _he's_ strangely human. So unlike the monster you had imagined before you were tossed in here. He has short, messy white hair, and admittedly pleasing facial features--a sharp jawline, high cheek bones, and a pair of the most dark, mesmerizing eyes you've ever seen.

He's handsome, and suddenly, your screaming feels very, very embarrassing. You shift uncomfortably, now acutely aware of how close this man--the King--is to you, his crotch pressed against your stomach from the impressive height he has on you, the cloth of his pants rubbing against your bare skin. "I-" you start, but your voice cuts off, strangled from your previous apparently unwarranted tantrum. This man is not the beast you had imagined. 

"Are you done?" he says, voice deep and chesty, and from how close he is, you can see that he, in much the same way as the queen, has incredibly sharp and dangerous teeth. You know that it should be disconcerting that he looks human--much more human than the queen come to think of it--, but still so distinctly inhuman. However, for some reason, you find yourself on the complete opposite side of scared--you're intrigued. 

Perhaps it's for the best, so that when he does inevitably turn on you as the queen described, you'll be taken completely unawares; like a fly in a Venus Flytrap--by the time you realize what's happening, it'll be too late.

The man regards you with a scrutinizing gaze, but otherwise expresses little. He lets go of you and steps back, folding his arms over his chest as he looks you over a few feet away. When he's sure you're not going to start screaming, again, he sits down on the bottom edge of a large bed behind him, and pulls up a dingy gray baseball bat to place in his lap. He doesn't look at you as he grabs a small cloth that had been lying on the bed and begins running it along the wood carefully.

You stand back, awkward, watching him as you shift from foot to foot, the cold of the air around you becoming more and more uncomfortable the longer you are away from his touch. He was warm, like a kindled fireplace or a summer breeze, so much unlike the queen. Despite yourself and your natural wariness to this practical stranger, you want him to hold you, again. Only for his warmth, you tell yourself, but somewhere deep inside you, you know you're lying.

Shifting once more, you take a step away from the thing he had slammed you up against and wince, hand going around to touch at the tender bruise that had formed from the decorative metal. You turn and see that he had pressed you against what looks to be a dresser. You frown and are about to turn back to face the so-called king when you feel him slide up behind you, arms coming around your body, his warmth a welcome reprieve from the chill.

One of his hands gently presses against your stomach, pleasantly hot, but your fear at the unknown--his unknown, the dangers the queen had warned you of--keep you stock still, even as he pulls you back into him while his other hand pulls at the dresser handle, opening it. He reaches inside, grabs a striped button up shirt, and moves backwards to drape it over your shoulders before returning to where he had been sitting before.

Again, when you're facing him, you simply stare. You're not sure what to do. You expected a beast, a monster, not this quiet, warm man who had given you clothing. You look down at the shirt he had given you and put your arms through the arm holes, hands running down the soft fabric to pull it together to be buttoned. 

Your fingers refuse to cooperate, however. There's a tremble to them, like you're afraid, but you don't feel afraid. Perhaps you're the fly, and your mind refuses to believe it, but you don't feel like you're in any immediate danger. So, why are your hands shaking so badly?

"She told you I was a monster." the man says, looking up from his bat as he puts it back down where it leans against the bed. His eyes narrow only slightly as he stares down at you, "She told you that I needed to be 'sated' to be controlled, that you will only live if you 'entertain' me."

You meet his eyes, searching them for some sort of hint as to what he's trying to get at, how he knows, but his expression is unchanging. He still looks smugly calm, unaffected. Meanwhile, you're becoming increasingly concerned at how accurate his words are, and how hungry his gaze is.

"Come here," he says, voice smooth, yet booming in the open space of the bedroom. Without thinking, you take a step forward, only barely hesitating when you reach him, knee to knee. He looks you over, now more closely, and you feel heat blush your cheeks. "Sit," he tilts his head, but continues to stare at you unabashedly. Just as you go to sit down beside him, he grasps your hips and pulls you forward into his lap, your legs spreading over his thighs, hands automatically coming up to catch yourself on his shoulders. He leans forward as he pulls you to settle on his crotch while his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck as he runs his lips over the curve of your neck, "It's been some time since I've encountered a pure being."

He presses a chaste kiss on your shoulder, trailing his lips up along your naked skin, to your jaw until his lips are just barely brushing against yours. He moves back to press his forehead against your own, the hand at your waist massaging the flesh there. You shiver.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks, a soothing whisper to your ears.

You gulp, face hot and mouth dry, your heart thudding fast against your rib cage, "Y-you're the King." you sound hoarse and tired, but breathless still even as his hand shifts down to grab your ass and pull you tight and fully against him. Your eyes widen when you feel him, half hard through his pants and centered just so, pressed up between your lower lips.

He chuckles as he kisses your cheek, "It sounds nice when you say it," he runs the hand that was holding your head down your back and to your waist, steadying you as he grinds you slowly onto him. Your back arches, fingers clenching into his shirt as a shock of pleasure runs through you, his straining length brushing the little bundle of nerves just above your sex. He looks at you, dark eyes a shade darker--obsidian, and heated. You whimper.

The King kisses under your jaw, then the corner of your mouth before leaning back to meet your eyes, "Tell me," he says, his voice several octaves lower, husky and rough, "Do you submit to me, innocent one?" He lifts his hips in time with the hand that drags your heat against him. You fall forward with a moan, a deep ache dripping you wet against the seat of his pants. He smiles and kisses the center of your neck, "Do you want this as much as I want you?"

You roll your hips onto his of your own accord, biting your lip at the slowly budding heat at the movement. Do you want him? Is he giving you a choice, or is this the test that will decide your fate--whether you die obvious and gored, or unaware and sated? Will he kill you if you don't comply? Will he kill you even after you do? Would you still want him, hot and hard and so deep inside you that you clench around him if you knew the answer..?  _Yes,_ you think, and so you tell him, "I want you, _please_."

The King looks taken aback for a second, before that ever present smug expression of his tilts into a smirk, "Then let me make you scream for a different reason."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all thought i forgot about this, didn't you? well i did. but then i remembered, b/c let's face it, we all want the baseball cosplayer's d.


End file.
